


speak low, if you speak love

by Waywarder



Series: Ineffable Shakespeare, or: The Other Arrangement [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), First Kiss, Much Ado About Nothing, Pining, Shakespeare Quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: “It’s alright to be nervous, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly, more to the laces than to Crowley. “This is rather uncharted territory, even for us.”“Not nervous,” Crowley mumbled. (He was. Desperately so.)Demons, it should be noted, are excellent at lying, so, to the untrained eye, it might seem that Crowley should be rather well equipped for the task in front of him. Unfortunately, acting is not lying. No, acting is the art of telling the truth. And the truth of Crowley was (is) that he was completely, ridiculously, knocked-on-his-ass-by-the-force-of-it in love with Aziraphale.“Well, I am,” Aziraphale finished tying the laces, and gave Crowley’s chest a gentle pat. “So, I’m awfully glad that it will be you up there with me.”In which Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves as understudies inMuch Ado About Nothing.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Shakespeare, or: The Other Arrangement [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711726
Comments: 10
Kudos: 105





	speak low, if you speak love

The words practically forced themselves out of Crowley’s throat, and he blinked back tears of frustration, of embarrassment, of longing:

“ _I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?_ ”

And, for a moment, Aziraphale just stood there, beautiful, mouth hanging open, eyes breathtakingly blue in the afternoon sunshine.

(How did we get here?)

_About an hour earlier, give or take._

“Bloody, blasted actors and their weak constitutions,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, shaking fingers fumbling on the laces of his doublet.

To his right, Aziraphale seemed not to have heard. No, the angel was entirely focused, murmuring under his breath, frantically, and occasionally pausing to make entirely ridiculous, trilling noises with his lips.

“What are you doing?” Crowley barked, annoyed at Aziraphale for getting them into this mess in the first place.

“Warming up!” Aziraphale said, earnestly. Earnestly, and, oh, _damn_ him, eagerly. Of course this catastrophe would be fun to Aziraphale.

“You know, someone’s going to accuse you of poisoning them yourself if you don’t calm down,” Crowley said, coolly. Fuck. His fingers were still struggling with the laces. There he was. The great, wicked Serpent of Eden himself, all worked up over a stupid play.

That he was going to have to perform. Himself. In front of living, breathing people.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, but his indignation did not meet his eyes. “You know that I would never! Those poor boys are sick. There’s nothing I can do.”

“‘Nothing you can do?!’” Crowley gave up on the laces for a minute, and rounded on Aziraphale. “You. Are. An. _Actual angel._ There’s plenty you can do. You just don’t want to. This is fun for you!”

“Oh, so, what if it is?” Aziraphale shot back. “We are supporting the arts, Crowley. Heaven couldn’t possibly disapprove.”

Crowley laughed out loud at that, perhaps with more acid than he would have liked. “Oh, couldn’t possibly, could they? I’m sure they’ll be just thrilled with your scene partner, angel.”

And he gestured pathetically at himself, standing there, backstage, moments until curtain, still not even fully dressed.

_(“Whatever are we going to do?” Shakespeare had been beside himself. “How can we go on without a Benedick and Beatrice?!”_

_Crowley had rolled his eyes. These dramatic types, you know?_

_“We know it! We’ve been to every preview!” Aziraphale blurted out, and before Crowley could put together what he was suggesting, much less STOP HIM-_

_Much Ado About Nothing, starring Aziraphale Fell and Anthony J. Crowley._

_Fucking fucking FUCK.)_

Aziraphale took a tentative step forward and lifted his hands. “May I?” He nodded at Crowley’s laces.

“Oh, fine,” Crowley growled.

Aziraphale closed the distance between them, and his hands moved smoothly and swiftly over Crowley’s chest. Crowley did everything in his actual demonic power to pretend that it was fine, that he was fine, that he wasn’t about to explode out of his actual demonic skin.

“It’s alright to be nervous, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly, more to the laces than to Crowley. “This is rather uncharted territory, even for us.”

“Not nervous,” Crowley mumbled. (He was. Desperately so.)

Demons, it should be noted, are excellent at lying, so, to the untrained eye, it might seem that Crowley should be rather well equipped for the task in front of him. Unfortunately, acting is not lying. No, acting is the art of telling the truth. And the truth of Crowley was (is) that he was completely, ridiculously, knocked-on-his-ass-by-the-force-of-it in love with Aziraphale.

“Well, I am,” Aziraphale finished tying the laces, and gave Crowley’s chest a gentle pat. “So, I’m awfully glad that it will be you up there with me.”

As Aziraphale turned away, Crowley took the opportunity to really appreciate Aziraphale in costume. His dress was a grey-blue that perfectly complimented his eyes. (If the angel had performed a subtle miracle so that the shades matched _just so,_ well, there you are.) Still, Aziraphale could have been wearing a sack, and his sheer enthusiasm over their rapidly upcoming theatrical debut would have made him the most beautiful creature on the Earth.

To Crowley, of course, he already was. 

Crowley was less concerned about making an idiot of himself in front of hundreds of sweaty, sticky humans, and much more concerned about the fact that, according to that idiot Shakepeare’s words, he was going to have to say, TO AZIRAPHALE’S FACE, that he loved him. And, yes, fine, sure, whatever, it was “acting.”

But what if Aziraphale saw the truth? 

_He already knows, you twit._

Crowley scowled. 

Bloody. Actors.

“Break a leg, Crowley,” Aziraphale said to him then, far too gently, far too- _no, he’s not being sweet, you idiot. Get it together._

“Break a leg, angel.”

Far too suddenly, it was time to go. To his great fury, Crowley _was_ nervous. He realized it just before he stepped on to the stage, his stomach lurching impossibly.

But then… Aziraphale was there. Aziraphale was there, radiant onstage, wearing that fucking dress, and he was bickering playfully with Crowley, and it all felt okay. Natural. Easy, even.

Damn. Were they actually good at this?

“ _What, my dear Lady Disdain!_ ” Crowley-as-Benedick crowed. “ _Are you yet living?_ ”

Aziraphale let out a huffy laugh, and turned to the audience, to get them on his side. “ _Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?_ ”

The crowd laughed, and Crowley grinned. Maybe this was going to be fine.

And it was! You know, until Act IV.

They had bantered and bickered and been ridiculous, together and apart, and Crowley was feeling rather full of himself, and then… and then Hero was being shamed at her own wedding. And then a plan was being hatched, and Aziraphale-as-Beatrice was quietly crying, and Crowley-as-Crowley wanted to go to him and to hold him and to make certain that he was alright, but was that right? Was that allowed? 

They really should have gone to a rehearsal.

And then it was just the two of them.

“ _Lady Beatrice,_ ” Crowley began softly, hating himself as his voice cracked just a bit. “ _Have you wept all this while?_ ”

“ _Yea,_ ” Aziraphale sniffed. ( _How is he doing that?_ Crowley wondered, sincerely impressed.) “ _And I will weep a while longer._ ”

“ _I will not desire that,_ ” Crowley said, and he meant it. He knew it was pretend, but it was awful, the sight of Aziraphale crying. 

“ _You have no reason,_ ” And there was fierceness now in Aziraphale’s voice, in his eyes. “ _I do it freely._ ”

“ _Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged._ ”

Crowley stepped closer to Aziraphale.

(I’d like to believe that the crowd was breathless at this point, that you could have heard a pin drop, but, you know, Groundlings.)

“ _Ah,_ ” Aziraphale choked on a fresh sob. “ _How much might the man deserve of me that would right her!_ ”

He was still focused on the audience, Crowley noticed. Hadn’t looked Crowley in the eyes nearly all scene long.

“ _Is there any way to show such friendship?_ ”

(I would do anything for you, angel. Look at me, wearing this stupid costume for you.)

“ _A very even way, but no such friend._ ”

(They’ll know, my dear. They’ll see, and they’ll destroy you. I can’t.)

“ _May a man do it?_ ”

(Would I could love you like this. Like a human.)

“ _It is a man’s office, but not yours._ ”

(I know, darling. But it isn’t possibly, surely you must see-)

“ _I do love nothing in the world so well as you,_ ” It tore out of Crowley as a shout. He’d known the line was coming, of course, had intended to be soft and smooth, but fuck, he needed to say it _now._

“ _Is not that strange?_ ”

Aziraphale turned to look at him, at last. 

Fuck. 

Those were real tears in the angel’s eyes.

Crowley barely heard the next few lines. He forgot entirely about the audience. He forgot that he was a demon. He forgot everything that wasn’t Aziraphale. Forgot everything that wasn’t the two of them moving closer and closer to one another until they were practically chest to chest.

“ _Why, then, God forgive me!_ ”

Oh, and that line broke the both of them. Together they each laughed a real, true, sad laugh at the thought of God’s forgiveness, and Crowley dared to bring his hand to Aziraphale’s face to wipe a tear off of his cheek.

“ _What offence, sweet Beatrice?_ ”

“ _You have stayed me in a happy hour,_ ” Aziraphale was shaking a little, Crowley could feel it. He brought his hands up to the angel’s shoulders to steady him. And Aziraphale may have continued to tremble, but it hardly mattered because his voice was true as steel: “ _I was about to protest I loved you._ ”

“ _And do it with all thy heart,_ ” The words rushed out of Crowley’s mouth.

“ _I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest!_ ”

And Crowley meant to do something dashing, he really did. But he was looking directly into Aziraphale’s eyes as the lines poured out of him, and he had gone to sleep so many nights over the centuries, closing his eyes and imagining Aziraphale saying such words to him…

Crowley dropped to his knees, quite overcome.

Aziraphale gasped and dropped to the stage to join him. Aziraphale offered Crowley his hand.

Well, Beatrice offered Benedick her hand.

It was all that they could offer.

Crowley started laughing again, he couldn’t tell you why, and this made Aziraphale begin to laugh as well, and it was fine, all of it was fine, it was going to be fine, they were going to get roaring drunk and joke about this later-

Crowley’s laughter suddenly turned to tears, ridiculous and frantic and _fuck._ Down there on the floor of the stage, Aziraphale flung his arms around Crowley’s neck and held him tightly.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale-as-Aziraphale whispered so that only Crowley could hear. 

_The show must go on._ There was another Aziraphale in Crowley’s brain, it seemed. The excited Aziraphale from earlier. The Aziraphale who had wanted to get all dressed up and play pretend.

 _Pretend. Remember that, demon._

Crowley coughed a little, and wriggled his way out of Aziraphale’s embrace. And the show went on.

“ _Come, bid me do anything for thee._ ”

(I always have.)

_An Act later._

Happily Ever After, it seemed. 

Crowley was going to get drunker tonight than he had in several decades. As the final scene went on around him, he looked at Aziraphale, glowing and delighted.

It was going to hurt like, well, Hell, to tell Aziraphale that he couldn’t come along tonight. But Crowley needed to be alone. Crowley couldn’t bear the thought of operating within reality now that he had told Aziraphale that he loved him, but that it had meant nothing. 

Well, that it had meant nothing to Aziraphale. 

And next there was a great flurry about some letters, and the crowd was laughing again, all was well, and then they were standing right next to one another.

“ _A miracle!_ ” Crowley-as-Benedick exclaimed to the audience. “ _Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity_ ”

Aziraphale-as-Beatrice smirked a little. “ _I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption._ ”

“ _Peace!_ ” Yeah, Crowley was going to need to sleep this one off for A MINUTE. “ _I will stop your mouth._ ”

And Crowley leaned down too quickly, eager to get it over with, but he was stopped by Aziraphale, placing a gentle finger on his lips. Crowley sucked in a breath. There were tears swimming ever so slightly in Aziraphale’s eyes again, but he was smiling. Smiling at Crowley. 

_Because he loves you._

Crowley shut his eyes tightly against the gentle, oft-ignored voice in his own head.

“Darling,” Aziraphale-as-Aziraphale whispered, once again, just for them. Crowley opened his eyes. 

And then Aziraphale wrapped his hand gently around the back of Crowley’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss. For their first kiss. 

It was soft and deep and almost certainly too long for the final scene of a comedy (people were ready to GO HOME), but neither of them especially cared. 

Crowley pulled away first, though it nearly destroyed him to do so. And Aziraphale was looking on him so fucking fondly, and fuck, the angel really should have quit the holy business and gone after a life on the stage. 

And they were dancing, and Crowley did his best to savor every touch of Aziraphale’s body to his. 

And, finally, the crowd was applauding and cheering, and Crowley couldn’t fight the little rush of pride that swept through his being. They’d done it. They’d done it, and they’d been good.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his, and squeezed it a little. Crowley turned to look at him. He was beaming, beautiful. Aziraphale nodded a little toward the audience.

“My dear fellow, take a bow, please.”

Crowley did. And then he closed his eyes again, just for a moment. In a way… he had finally told the truth today. He had told the truth, and Aziraphale was still standing there. Holding his hand even.

Maybe he would tell the truth again someday.

Crowley sighed.

_Then sigh not so, but let them go,  
And be you blithe and bonny,  
Converting all your sounds of woe  
Into Hey nonny, nonny._

**Author's Note:**

> I just want them to quote Shakespeare and kiss, okay? Forever.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
